


impossible things

by agenderleadingplayer



Category: The X-Files
Genre: 40s AU, F/M, idk what to tag this, it's so long it got out of hand i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 02:44:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8083564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenderleadingplayer/pseuds/agenderleadingplayer
Summary: "don't you see the starlight, starlight?/don't you dream impossible things?"
he meets her on an alexandria boardwalk in 1945 and does not forget her, not for a long time at least. 
there are so many things they could have been.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was a Ride and??? there's not much more to say tbh?? it started out as a oneshot and ended up much longer than intended..
> 
> enjoy i guess lmao!

_**1945.** _

the july heat, before nearly imperceptible, all of a sudden grips him and he reaches up to loosen his collar. the breeze coming from the water isn't doing much in the way of cooling him, cooling anybody down; the alexandria waterfront sits still and warm, and he desperately tries to find some shade in this five o’clock heat. old town has been familiar enough, home enough, to him for him to know his way around, but he's never been given cause to be down here on this boardwalk until now, after a mediocre dinner in a too-crowded restaurant.

eventually he makes his way over to a gazebo, dark wood and benches.

and a girl.

or, woman. sitting, looking out at the potomac, her hat (incredibly fancy hat) held tight in her hands. her hair is red, wisps of it blowing around her which she tries desperately to move out of her face. her face, which he cannot see.

“hello.”

“oh! hi…” she turns around, slightly startled, hat held over her chest. a string of pearls hangs from her neck and her dress and jacket whip in the breeze which has, somehow, in the last minute, picked up. her eyes are impossibly blue and he thinks he ought to be in some sort of movie, meeting this girl like this.

“hi, i um. well, came to escape the heat. find some sort of shade.”

“well you've come to the right place.” her voice is low, almost a monotone. he thinks, a voice like that, it could lull him to sleep. she almost smiles.

“come for the, uh, party?” he asks, somewhat ashamed at the slight awkwardness in his voice which had not before been there. the yacht had been booked months in advance; everyone in alexandria knew about it and everyone who had money was going. he was not going.

“no, i…well, actually, i came over here for dinner. i’d forgotten it was tonight.”

he laughs. “same thing happened to me.” then, after slightly too long a silence, “mind if i sit?” and a motion toward the seat next to her.

“of course,” she replies softly, and he sits down. he thinks to remark on her clothes. he wonders if women like that. he wonders what the hell she’s doing here, uninvited to the big fancy boat party yet sitting in this impossibly fancy dress. so he asks her.

“it was a fancy restaurant,” she says, that almost-smile back again. he notices a dusting of freckles near her nose, and, god, those eyes…

“but you weren't invited to the party?” he narrows his eyes at her, this mysterious young woman in her fancy dress and pearls and hat.

“i…” she takes a deep breath, evidently choosing her words carefully. “it was a date. i...didn't pay.”

“oh.” of course. “where is...he?” he tries, looking around the small wooden structure. this section of the boardwalk seems to be abandoned but for the two of them.

she laughs a nearly undetectable laugh. “gone home, i should guess. it didn't work out, i guess is how i’d put it.”

“oh. good! or, bad. or, um.”

she smiles, lowers her head. "good," she responds. "wasn't much of a charmer."

"good thing i came along then, isn't it?" he asks, and he's worried he's crossed a line but she keeps smiling and he thinks he can see a blush rise in her cheeks.

she glances out to the river again, sighs quietly. "i do wish i'd been invited," she says, almost to herself. "it'd be fun, don't you think?" and she turns back to face him. "dancing and...things."

"yeah." then, after a breath, "you know, miss, you could probably pass for royalty. in those clothes."

she turns back to face him. "what do you mean?"

"well, if you wanted to..."

"you're telling me to sneak onto the boat." he nods and she scoffs, rolls her eyes so pointedly that he falls just the tiniest, tiniest bit in love with her, this woman whose name he doesn't even know.

"you could say you were...i don't know, the duchess of someplace."

"you really want to get me on this yacht, don't you?" she's really smiling and it's the first time he's seen her really smile and she looks like light, pure light radiating from her. he does not even know her name. god, he doesn't even know her name.

"we can figure this out," he says, and they hatch a plan, the two of them, duchess and prince. somehow it works and all of a sudden they're on this boat, music playing big and loud. may i have this dance, he asks her, holding out his hand and smiling big, really big, this girl in front of him. yes, she says, you most certainly may.

so the two of them dance, on the dance floor of a boat at a party neither of them were invited to to a song he does not know. she smiles as they step one-two-three to a fast waltz and her eyes (her eyes!) sparkle in the low lamplight...

"what's your name?" she asks, and, yes, they don't know each other, do they. met barely half an hour ago in the sweltering virginia heat in a wooden gazebo, her looking forlornly out to this boat where they now step, together, in time.

"fox," he says, and she makes a face. "fox mulder. but most people just call me mulder."

"well, fox," she says, trying it out, cringing. "mulder, i mean. i see why you do that." he smiles at her. the song is still playing, big horns and strings and things. "i'm dana. scully. but since we're on last name basis..." she throws a smirk up at him (she is very short, he notices, nearly a foot smaller than him and he is tall but not that tall). "...you can call me scully."

he laughs. "all right, scully," he says, and her name feels right, there, on his lips, tongue. he thinks, that is a name i'd like to say a lot. he thinks, this is right, somehow, us. the song ends. she lets go of him.

"would you like a drink?" he asks, the two of them standing awkwardly on a now-silent dance floor. she nods, takes his hand and leads him out to the edge of the ballroom, grabs two champagne flutes from a short waiter.

"how's this compare to your date?" he asks with a smirk, and she looks at him, really looks at him and she is smiling and he does not breathe.

"much...much better," she finally says, an air of finality to it. they sip their drinks and he reaches out to grab her hand, kisses it before she knows what's happening.

"what was that?"

"i don't know, i..."

and another song starts, big and slow, and he does not let go of her hand. they abandon their champagne and walk out onto the floor and dance, and she says "what a lovely song" and he knows she is half-joking but, he thinks, yes she's right isn't she; this song is it, really, us dancing, all i'd ever need.

he feels, though he wouldn't say it to her face lest she roll her eyes or laugh at him, like pure light, like the sun, or something, stars, maybe. they're dancing, him and this girl he doesn't know, and she's smiling at him and he sees nothing but her.

the song ends, or, they're found out, neither duchess nor prince. or, they get bored and step off the yacht, two songs being enough for both of them to realize it wasn't really worth it anyway. they're back on the boardwalk. she holds his hand.

she says, where do you want to go, mulder, his name safe when she says it, and he says well i don't know scully what would you like? anything you'd like, scully, he says, and she laughs. she says, i don't really know this place that well, and so he leads her to a tiny beach (barely a beach: some rocks and dirt and water only about ten feet long and three feet deep), looking out at two small docks and the river.

she looks behind her, points. "what's that?" she's holding her hat with one hand to keep it from blowing away in the wind; her too-expensive long, beautiful red dress has gotten wet by her ankles and she doesn't seem to mind. her hair is back on her face and she doesn't have enough hands to fix it. he thinks, i am in love with her.

"no one really knows," he says, referring to the old old abandoned building she'd gestured to. "i think it might have been a waterfront restaurant twenty, thirty years ago. it just kind of...sits here now."

"oh," she says, turns back to him and the beach. her hair is still in her face; he reaches across to help her.

she looks at him, once the wind dies down. "you know, you're strange, mister mulder. there's something strange about you."

he cracks a smile, thinks about kissing her. "like what, miss scully?"

"well," and she walks onto the rocks, black shoes getting damp, not caring, "you come up to me in that gazebo way over there and we hatch this plan, don't we, to sneak onto this boat. duchess and prince. and we're there, and dancing –" she turns to face him now, "– i don't even know your name at this point, mind you, and then we're calling each other by our last names and drinking champagne on a boat we were not invited onto and you lead me out here and tell me about that abandoned restaurant and..." she sighs, shakes her head. "it doesn't make sense, mulder."

it doesn't make sense, mulder. he likes the way she says that.

"okay," he says, slowly, weighing his options. "did you want to...know more about me, is that it?"

she looks out at the river. "sure," she says. "like...what do you do?" it's curt, the way she says it.

"are you angry with me?"

and she turns, shakes her head. "you're just funny, is all. i don't..." a breath. "well, i don't really know you. tell me about yourself, i suppose is what i mean."

he nods. "i'm um. a psychologist." the sun is setting, he notices. the sky has turned pink-purple-orange and reflects off the water. she is still looking at him. then, remembering: "what do you do?"

"i'm a doctor." he raises his eyebrows and, evidently thinking he is surprised, she scoffs and smiles, turns away from him.

"my parents didn't want me to do it," she says after a long silence. the sun is nearly below the horizon now, midnight blues peeking out from behind clouds, the moon making its comfortable home above them. "they told me it was...not becoming of me. my father, he said i should be an actress. like my sister – she's out in hollywood now; movies and things."

"you'd be a good actress," he tries. she doesn't say anything, pretends he hasn't spoken at all.

"but i didn't listen. i went to medical school and i passed all the tests and i...well. you didn't invite me to dance to hear my life story, did you?"

"no, i..." he takes a slow breath. "you sound...upset. at your parents, i mean."

she shrugs. "i worry about them. or, rather, i worry about them because i know they worry about me. i'm...a woman in a man's world."

he nods. "yeah," he says quietly. then, because there is nothing else to say, he picks up a rock from the bank and tosses it into the water. it lands with a resounding plonk and she laughs.

"are you trying to skip stones?" he nods, vaguely. she laughs, picks up a rock, tosses it out to the river. it skips three times and he is in love with her.

"how'd you do that?"

"it's all in the wrist, mulder." and she picks up a flat stone, hands it to him. "angle your wrist twenty degrees," she says, and he does. "loosen your grip." he does. she takes his hand and says, "this is what the swing looks like, all right? follow through."

he laughs. "follow through. okay." she does not let go of his hand. he tosses the smooth rock out into the potomac where it skips once, settles down to the bottom.

"mm," she says, as if in approval. "good. that was good, mulder."

"thank you, scully," he says. she laughs and looks up at the sky, having gone completely dark in just a matter of minutes.

"they're beautiful, aren't they? the stars," she says.

"yes," he says. "yes, they really are." he tells her, i think, when we die, our souls go up there. she laughs and says you know mister mulder it's mighty funny how morbid you just got, is that how you woo the girls back home; he cannot stop smiling. after a long while he takes a breath. "do you ever..." he struggles to find the words, hunts for them in this cool night air as if they'll magically appear to him glinting in starlight. "look up at the sky, at night perhaps, and..." he shakes his head. "have you ever dreamt an impossible dream, scully?"

she looks at him, head cocked to one side. "like what?"

"like...like maybe we're not alone in the universe. or," and he can't help but smile big, all-teeth; he hasn't smiled this long this hard in years; "or, like how i could meet some girl on a boardwalk while i try to escape the heat and i fall madly in love with her and we get married and have ten kids and..."

and she kisses him, there, looking up at the stars on that beach. she tries, in vain, to hold her hat on her head with one hand and his face with the other, eventually discards the hat completely and drops it onto the rocks below and she is kissing him, really, really, truly kissing him there and he is in love with her, this doctor dana scully who he's just met, who he snuck onto a boat with, danced with to a beautiful song he does not remember, told about the stars and where he thinks souls go.

she pulls away and he does not breathe, and she laughs open-mouthed and he wants to say thank you, say, i think you are everything i have ever wanted or could want. but the words don't come and so instead he kisses her again, long and slow and soft and he does not want to break away, to let go, to leave. he thinks, this kiss, here, now, is the only thing keeping me from wondering if i am in a dream because i can feel it. he thinks, who the hell is this girl to make me feel this way. but he does not question it because how can he, because she really, truly is beautiful and she is kissing him; she had taught him how to skip stones. she had been his impossible dream.

but in the end she breaks away, because she has to – because they both need to breathe. and they are just standing there, breathing, looking at each other and he says thank you just quietly enough to be heard. she places a gentle hand on his face and blinks. "i should thank you," she finally manages. "you got me on that yacht, didn't you?"

she does not take her hand off of his face. "what time is it?" she whispers, and he checks his watch and tells her, and she looks back up at the stars and lets go of his face and he hugs her, puts his arms gently around her from the back and kisses her cheek and she says it's late.

he breathes. in-out. "yes. it is."

she says, i should go soon. she says, tonight was nice. she says, here is my address – my phone number if you'd like to call me. she is about to leave. god, she is about to leave. the sun has set and the evening is over and she is leaving him, on this beach leaving him.

"scully." he tries his hardest to keep breathing but it's hard when she's just so goddamn beautiful, this woman he does not know...

"mulder," she says, as if in response.

"i...can i kiss you one more time?" like he's never going to see her again. and he is going to see her again; he is going to see her every second of every day if he can (she wouldn't want that, of course, but he likes to dream. impossible things, all that). she nods slowly and so he does, kisses her and she tastes like goodbye.

and it's ridiculous – of course they'll see each other again, of course. of course.

but the way she says "good night mulder" tells him maybe he won't.

it takes him a good eight seconds to finally let go of her hand.

and when he does, when he finally lets go – lets her go – she picks up her hat and walks off into the night, not as humid now that the sun has set, and he watches her leave, watches her with such intensity that his eyes on her red dress is the only thing telling him that this, tonight, is real, was real...

he gets a beer at the bar across the street and walks home.

•••

"a what?" frohike lets out a half-drunk cackle and slams his card hand on the table as if to end the game right there. mulder feels like he's being circled by a pack of hounds – or, a friendly pack of hounds who love to gossip. yes, that was it.

"a who," langly corrects, placing his hand face-down in the same manner as frohike's.

"yes, good to see you've finally found someone, mulder," finishes byers, and mulder swears that sometimes the three of them share one hive-mind...

"well, i wouldn't be so quick to say that he's found someone for sure," frohike chimes in, taking another swig from an already half-empty whiskey bottle that mulder has smartly declined to touch. "it was only a night after all."

"let's hear what mulder has to say," byers tries, looking to mulder for some type of answer.

mulder laughs and shakes his head, staring down at frohike's kitchen table littered with cards and chips – he's never played much poker but the three of them always seemed adamant that he play with them whenever he was around. "she was beautiful," he starts, and frohike says "here we go" and langly nods his head in agreement: here we go indeed. "she has these eyes..."

"'these eyes!'" mocks frohike, and scoffs.

"yes, they're..."

"blue?" langly offers.

"impossibly," mulder replies with a far-away smile: "so impossibly blue it's like you're...i don't know, i couldn't put it into words..."

"and she lives here," says byers, not quite question not quite statement. mulder nods. "good."

"are you gonna visit her soon?" frohike or langly asks, maybe at the same time.

"yes, but not..."

"too soon," byers finishes, or maybe it was frohike.

"yes. wouldn't want to think i was..."

"desperate," the three of them say at the same time.

"yeah."

"well," says frohike, leaning forward on his elbows, pushing poker chips out of his way. "i for one think you should visit her as soon as possible. maybe ring her up, invite her to dinner."

mulder hesitates, considering his options. then, "i might wait. a week, maybe two."

"good," says byers or langly. "you'll come up to her door and she'll say something like, 'oh, my one true love! i've been waiting for you! why ever didn't you call!'"

"she doesn't talk like that," mulder says, between cackles.

byers assesses the table. "i think it's time mulder goes home," he says, with a pointed glance at the other two.

"yes," frohike remarks with a hiccup. "yes indeed."

so he leaves, heavy with alcohol he had not drunk. he remembers the address she'd given him – knows it by heart, though he won't admit it – a house in one of the more expensive, older parts of town, near the water. he thinks it odd that she'd told him she didn't go down to the waterfront often, especially living as close as she does. he doesn't think on it too hard – he isn't going to try and figure her out.

the night is still young when he makes it home, awash in the light from a moon that is at its last end of full. the stars flicker and twinkle and things, and he remembers the beach and does not go to her house. it is late. he will visit her in a few weeks. he knows this.

eventually, four days in (or maybe four days after, depending on how you count it) he gives in and telephones her, listens to the rings on the other end and times his breathing with them. she picks up and he stops taking in air.

"dana scully."

"it's me." does she know it's him? "it's...it's mulder."

he hears her laugh and she says "hello," and he says "hello" and they talk – he asks her how her days have been, if the summer nights have been cool enough, if her dress was all right ("you'd gotten it wet," he explains. "on the beach?"). she says she is fine and he believes her. he says he will visit her soon and she hesitates, eventually says yes. says, i'd love to see you, says, i'm looking forward to it. she sounds as if she is waiting for the conversation to be over. he loves her and he is not sure if she knows.

do you have somewhere to be, he asks her, because maybe that is enough of an i love you, enough of an i care. she does not say anything and he thinks the answer is probably yes. neither of them say anything for a while – they both breathe into their separate receivers, across town or not really, breathe in and out and they are both with each other and not, somehow.

"see you soon, scully," he finally settles on saying, hopes his smile is audible, hopes she is remembering his kissing her, there on those rocks, the stars pale and shimmering and her face silhouetted perfectly in the moonlight. see you soon, mulder, is her reply, because what else could she reply, and he says goodbye softly and hangs up the telephone with a resounding click.

he does not visit her.

he thinks about it, thinks about it day in day out, thinks about it more than he should. he passes the street her house is on time and time again, goes on long walks to pass her by and catch maybe a whiff of her perfume, or maybe just the feeling of starlight that night so long ago (not too long ago; a week? maybe more?).

it takes him almost a month to finally visit her, and before then he does not call her, does not say anything to her; he does not really know her, he reasons. he has kissed her three times and it had only really been because he'd gotten her on that boat.

a woman who is not scully opens the door after he knocks, old and small in a pale blue nightdress despite the fact that it is nearly one in the afternoon: the landlady, presumably.

"oh. hello," he says, shifting his weight slowly from one foot to the other. "i'm looking for a miss dana scully, she..." a puzzled look crosses the old woman's face but she says nothing. "she gave me this address," he finishes.

"how long ago was that?" the woman speaks quietly, with the ghost of some sort of accent that he can't quite put his finger on.

"almost a month, i'd say."

the woman nods, looks at her slippered feet, then back up at him. she is odd, somehow, and he doesn't know why. "miss scully doesn't live here anymore," she explains, almost as if she were talking to a child. "she moved about a week ago. did she not let you know?"

he shakes his head and the woman says "pity," and is about to close the door in his face when he asks where she's gone.

"los angeles," she says, pointedly. "to live with her sister. she told me she might try and become some great actress. in movies, you know."

he nods and remembers how he'd told her how wonderful of an actress she would have been. he wonders if her sister had made it somehow, had been in films for months or years and he didn't even know it.

"sorry you didn't catch her to say goodbye," the woman says, as way of shooing him from her front stoop, no doubt.

"oh, that's..." quite all right, he means to say. quite all right. instead he bows his head and walks away, hands shoved deep into his pockets – she had not told him and he cannot blame her, will not, will never blame her but, god, how he'd wanted (needed?) to see her again, this mysterious young woman whom he had, in truth, never really known in the slightest.

he goes into work the next day with nothing but the job on his mind and so he works, finds out what people are ailing from and takes notes. he does not see patients – that is not his division – but instead sits in a chair all day, makes friends with file cabinets. he is new in this office and questioning his place in the workforce and, in some ways, the world.

the gunmen, by which they insist he refer to them, drop in around lunch and ask to eat with him. they can sense when he is upset, and whether that is just the mark of a good friend or some other special power he does not know.

"how are you doing?" byers asks him over a bowl of steaming tomato soup that had arrived so hot mulder is surprised he can eat it safely.

"yes, we heard about the..."

"...unfortunate event at miss scully's house." langly finishes frohike's statement with ease and takes a huge bite of his caprese sandwich.

"you three seem to know everything there is to know about me," mulder remarks with a raise of his eyebrows, and the gunmen shrug in unison and turn their attention back to their lunch.

"who do you even work for, them letting you out this long for lunch? skinner only lets me go with you three because he likes me, let's face it. i were anyone else he'd be on my ass constantly."

"we cannot impart our career unto you," byers says, already somehow halfway done with his soup. "it is a line of work most confidential," he finishes, or maybe all three say so at once.

"i see."

"how is work going for you," frohike asks, abandoning the bowl of shrimp scampi in front of him only two bites in. "anything interesting?"

"or are you too distracted by scully's disappearance?" one of them had said that last part. he can't for the life of him seem to remember who.

"well, it's..." mulder starts, realizing soon enough that the gunmen were right: it seemed, while cliche, that he finds himself thinking of her too often than he probably should, than one night should warrant. he thinks about the los angeles air, low and heavy and hot all year; thinks about the movies she or her sister is going to be in someday, all made up for a technicolor camera, in something like a red dress and hat, string of pearls sitting just so above her collarbone...

langly had been saying something to him. he does not remember what. "hmm?" he asks, hoping one of them will repeat the statement. instead byers gets up and places his napkin on his plate, a motion that it is time to leave.

"we haven't paid," mulder points out as the four of them put on their coats.

"we know," frohike says. mulder doesn't question him.

and then he's out of the restaurant and back at work and packing up his things to go home. skinner calls him into his office, says "i really shouldn't be letting you take this much time off during the day," and sends him off.

he passes her apartment – or, what used to be her apartment, now seemingly grey and lifeless and occupied only by an old woman in baby blue slippers and a strange accent – on his way home and he does not go in, does not knock on the door or climb the three stone steps up to the porch or do anything; does not, even, look the direction of the old building, instead keeps on walking further into old town until he is almost out of the city entirely. his apartment sits on the edges of town, nearer a walk to the recently built masonic memorial, tall and brown, than the water.

he thinks about forgetting about her. he thinks about how easy it might be were he not to care, were he to simply accept that it was only one night, could only be one night, nothing else. nothing else. he'd kissed her and she'd tasted like goodbye.

he could, he reasons, pretend to forget about her; pretend and pretend until the pretending became real and he did not remember her name anymore. it is not an outcome he wants, nor one he finds himself particularly warmed to, even after five minutes of thought and logistics and psychology and things.

but she is in california and she is not coming back. he knows this, somehow, deep down in heart or soul or some other place; knows she is, for all intents and purposes, gone.

he does not cry. or, he does, but quietly: soft, shaking sobs that cease after a mere minute; he cries short and he cries hard, one burst of emotion and, he thinks, this is it. this is all he will feel for her. she did not know him, and, god, he could not have known her less.

but he loves her. it is a fact, that he loves her, and he cannot shake it, no matter how hard he tries: he loves her, having known her for less than three hours, having skipped stones with her on a beach that was not a beach; he loves her.

and he'd told her, he had; he'd told her in case he did not get to see her again so he would not regret not doing it so she knows, maybe; at least there is a possibility she knows, might know –

he lets himself think, for one singular, screaming moment, about what it could have been like had she stayed. what might have happened had it had not been the old woman who opened that door but her, her, scully, her, red hair blowing about her face in the breeze, freckles dusted on her cheeks and nose, eyes he will, he realizes, never not remember as long as he lives.

he would have asked her to dinner, he thinks. he would have taken her someplace nice, someplace she'd like. they would have taken a walk down the oldest streets in town, some still cobblestoned, walked down streets and alleys holding hands and things; he would have kissed her on her front stoop before dropping her off for the night, held her hand and said i am so, so in love with you i think and she would smile that almost-smile of hers and laugh an almost-laugh and, he realizes, if he'd told her, if she'd known one hundred percent and all the way she might not have said it back. not yet.

but he would say it anyhow, say it so she'd for certain and for true know; he'd drop her off at her door and kiss her goodnight and tell her.

and he wants it bad, he thinks, wants whatever it was the two of them could have had (years, even, maybe, he thinks; they could last years – or, at least, he could wake up next to her every day for a thousand centuries and never get tired of it) more than he's ever wanted anything, really, ever wanted or needed or thought he'd require to survive; somehow this is the only necessity he's ever had and he cannot have it.

and it's ridiculous, it is – and he knows it, too, that it is not something that could have lasted even if he'd tried. the thinking peaks and he stops, does not imagine anything for any longer. she would not have stayed either way, really; she would have gone, left, had he not met her and that's that.

so he forgets about her. slowly, sleepily at first; going through days and days and days pushing her out of his mind purposefully; working, and doing nothing but work – and lunch, with the gunmen, who do not ask how he is doing. he thinks he likes that about them. he thinks.

one day, maybe a month or so into the forgetting, skinner knocks on his door at work. may i come in, he says, and mulder nods and does not say anything.

he likes skinner, really really does, but they never do talk much; when they do it is always, has always been, about the work. skinner had been married once, he thinks; divorced, now, maybe, or maybe they never made it official but she just does not live with him anymore. there were never any children; he knows this.

how are you, skinner says (or, rather, "how are you mulder" in that way he does where he sounds like he really does care – skinner is a good man, mulder thinks. one of few), and mulder says fine, fine, not much has changed except he is lying, and skinner knows this, and asks him about her because somehow he knows.

or, he doesn't ask him about her, not exactly, but says things like you've been much more tired, recently, i've noticed, and, is there something wrong, and, would you like to talk about it.

"it's really fine," mulder tries, then takes a breath and says "how'd you feel if i told you it was a girl, boss," and skinner smiles and so does mulder and skinner says i see and mulder says yes, it's a, um. long story and skinner says i'm sure and they leave it at that, mulder being left alone with a "just let me know if you'd like to talk about anything" and the soft close of a door.

so he heads home, head held a bit higher with the assurance that he at least has someone to talk to, somebody (somebody good, kind; who cares enough to pretend to want to listen to his problems) to save him from his own head every once in a while. he tries forgetting like it's a mindfulness exercise, pretends taking the smallest details about her and wrapping them in handkerchiefs – the freckles that dust her nose and the small mole above her lips and her fingers, long and thin and trimmed perfectly – and dropping them, one by one, into a wastebasket, forgotten forever. or, for a long while at least.

and, somehow, for some reason, it works, though he does not want it to, initially, and it is hard, at first, too, because trying not to think about something just makes you want to think about it so he practices, practices forgetting as if it were an art and so he forgets, eventually forgets her wholly and completely and he does not miss her because he does not remember who she is.

and then the month turns into months turns into years, and the boring office desk work is no good and so he travels, sees places he does not want to move to (and some he does), and does not think about going there, going anywhere, with her. he is promoted. the job is the same.

eventually, one day soft and canary yellow by the memory of it, skinner calls him into his office, says, you're one of my best men here, you know; says, you've done exemplary work these past few years; says, there's an opening at one of our other offices that i think might suit you well – higher pay, you know.

mulder says, where.

skinner says, hands clasped, leaning slightly forward across the desk at him, los angeles.

and he probably says something after that, about how i know it's far away but i think you really would be good for it, you know, but mulder does not hear him because he is too busy remembering, memories flooding back to him much too fast and he gets up before skinner can finish what he is saying and asks, how much, and skinner tells him.

and it is a good number.

and there is no one who would miss him here.

and there is someone across a continent who he has tried his hardest to push from the very edges of his memory, who is now more pronounced than ever, coming back in gasps; every in-out breath and another facet of that three-hour night reveals itself...

he says yes.

he says, it's been wonderful working with you.

he says, how soon can i start.

•••

los angeles is not kind to him.

at least, not in the first few months; the air is hot year round, and, while not as humid as alexandria summers, still feels too heavy of a weight to bear on his shoulders; he slouches against the boulevards and sweats in jackets that do not fit and finds palm trees foreign and confusing. he thinks, i don't belong here, not really. he finds himself missing alexandria, missing the small town-ness of it, the way he'd known the tiny city like the back of his hand: cobblestoned streets and a wooden-docked waterfront; he hadn't known how much he'd enjoyed it until now, where he sits at a cafe that does not remind him at all of a northern virginia cafe unless he really squints, and he thinks about what he had not thought he was going to miss.

"hollywood? really?" langly had said, when he'd told them. mulder had nodded his head: yes, yes, all the way out west. the job offer was good; good money. i'm going to miss you three, you know that, right?

"anything to do with that mysterious girl from all those years ago?" frohike had asked, and mulder had been confused – he'd never told them...or maybe he had...

"it's a good portion of his reasons, i'm sure," byers said, and mulder had not said anything, just nodded, just breathed.

and now he sits, drinking california coffee at a california table breathing california air and looking out at the streets which are not his home, not yet. the air is not welcoming here, he thinks. it may be wet and cruel back east but at least it had wrapped you up, made you feel well cared for.

the job, which, he has to remind himself daily, he flew all the way out here for, the forgetting sessions now ones devoted to remembering, taking every last detail out of the garbage and pressing it flat like a dead bouquet; pinning it up to look at when he is down; the job is fine, good money. his walk is not long, but nice; he passes a handful of gardens with white flowers and plants he does not recognize blooming, stretching toward the hollywood sun.

he sees movie stars, sometimes, he thinks, out and about, and they never look happy. he looks at them and thinks they must see that he never looks all that happy too. he strolls in parks and thinks, and remembers, and talks to himself sometimes. he goes to bars with friends from work and drinks, and talks, and remembers, and every so often he will take a stroll out of his surprisingly inexpensive apartment and look up at the hollywood sign and think, and remember, and buy coffee in coffee shops that feel different.

the waitress who had served him says "sir?" a third time, and her eyebrows are raised, and she looks very annoyed. sorry, he says, and, yes, i would love some more coffee  
thank you. no, ma'am, black is just fine; oh, i'm fine out here, i don't mind the heat, where i come from it's much worse. oh, a little town called alexandria, just south of the nation's capital – never heard of it? i wouldn't be surprised, most people haven't. oh, i'm here for work, that's all...

and she leaves, and he is relieved, having lowered her eyebrows.

eventually his coffee comes, and it is his third cup and so he thinks that that is enough, and leaves, with a generous tip for the kind waitress, and walks across the street and down a ways, two, three blocks, to a park.

parks had never done him good, back home; he never had had anyone all that willing to visit them with him – the gunmen were self-proclaimed homebodies; too-long lunch breaks was all they ever got out of wherever it was they lived. but the parks here, he'd found, were a lot better for just sitting and watching and things.

so he watches the people: a tall man, late twenties, perhaps, tossing a ball back and forth to his son, a boy who didn't look older than nine; an older couple, fifty at least, strolling, holding hands (which he finds endearing: all those years and they were still in love); a beautiful young woman with red hair and freckles and...

and.

he does not have to look twice. hell, he does not even have to look once. he is not breathing, or, at least he doesn't think so, and, should a human heart beat this fast? is this what a heart attack feels like; is he about to die, here, on this bench in front of her...

his feet are carrying him towards her before he knows what is happening, and then he is in front of her and years have passed, they have, but, really, she looks the same and, goddamn, those eyes...

"hello." her voice has not changed; low and steady and could still, he thinks, after all these years, sing him to sleep; "may i help you?"

and she does not recognize him.

and of course she does not recognize him, why in hell would she; it had been a lifetime ago and they had only been together, really together, for less than three hours so of course she does not recognize him...

he realizes he has not said anything.

so he says, "dana scully?" and hopes, prays (though he's never really believed in all that, one way or the other) she understands...

"oh. oh my god..."

and she does understand, she does, but it is not like he had imagined. she says "oh my god" and does not hug him or kiss him, there in that park in the most beautiful green dress he has ever seen – she does not, in fact, even grab his hand, or look particularly happy to see him, even; she says "oh my god" and she had recognized him but that is all.

he feels like he needs to say more.

"i'm...mulder? fox mulder. from..."

"i know who you are." she speaks quietly and he thinks she might be crying. he looks down at her hands because he wants to hold them and sees the ring.

"when did you..."

"oh." she smiles at her finger and he hopes she is happy, with whoever it might be. "his name is daniel. we got married last spring."

"and you're happy."

"yes." and she means it. and he hates that she means it.

"any little ones?" he smiles as best he can, the answer must be no, it must be no...

"yeah." she smiles back, but not at him, at the ground, at her shoes... "emily. she's a few months old. dan's home with her now."

"oh." he tries to find something, anything to say...

"why are you out here, mulder?" and she says his name like she had that night; the way she says his name has not changed in years and he loves her and she does not know it anymore, that he loves her, but he loves her, has never loved anyone this much, this big, this loud...

"work." she raises her eyebrows and he wants to kiss her. "i got offered a job out here. paid better than the one back east..."

"did you know i was out here?" she asks it like she's been meaning to ask it from the beginning. he takes a deep, shuddering breath; yes, he says, yes, i did, but you weren't...well,you weren't the only reason i came out here; part of the reason, yes, maybe, but not the only reason...

he stops, takes another breath, more collected this time: "i wasn't looking for you, though. i'd tried to...forget..." she does not say anything and so he takes a chance. "don't you just think it's...funny?"

"how?"

"how, well, i don't know, how...how i wasn't even looking for you and you, you showed up. in this park. that i almost...didn't go to, almost..."

she stops him. "yes, it's funny." and he thinks she might kiss her. so he says i still love you, says it quietly, there, in that park; says, i still love you soft and firm and one hundred percent, for real and for certain, true.

and she does not say it back. she does not say anything back, not for a long while, her, her, scully, her, who he'd loved and tried to forget, who he had not known, never known, but still loved; her, with eyes that still kill him whenever he looks at her...

"no."

"what?"

"no, you don't." a breath. "mulder..."

"yes?" he is going to cry. he still wants to kiss her.

"you don't know me."

and it's true, so he says so, says, no, i don't, but i still love you, don't you understand? and she shakes her head and purses her lips and grabs his hand and he is afraid now, but he does not know what of so he does not breathe, tries not to breathe...

"maybe..." she looks down at their hands, linked together: one with a ring, one without. "maybe in another life." and she looks at him and he is confused.

"in another...what?"

she lets go of his hand, says, "in another world, you know...if we met earlier or, if i stayed, or if we knew each other – really knew each other – maybe then, mulder. maybe then." she must see the perplexed expression on his face because she continues, softly, every word measured, every word made sure and true: "you wanted me to dream impossible things, right?" and he nods and he is still not breathing. "well, this is mine. impossible dream, i mean. another life, mulder."

he looks down, does not want to face her and her eyes. "you really believe that?"

"i think..." she hesitates, then: "i want to believe it. i really, really want to believe it."

so he smiles, because this, this is good; they're ending but on a good note. he does not want to think that this is the end, there can never be another end but this; "you don't strike me as the type who would believe such bizarre ideas," he says, flirting, obviously, with this married woman.

"you'd be surprised," she shoots back, right eyebrow arched, grabbing his hand again. her face falls. this is it, he knows this. "goodbye, mulder."

"goodbye, scully."

and that's that – she walks away, her, her, scully, her, in her green dress, into the los angeles heat and he does not see her again.

and it is not like seeing her again, for that final time, and her walking away saying she wanted to believe, made him any more sure in anything; he remembers, now, and misses her, misses her more than anyone has ever missed anyone probably. he sees her, sometimes, or thinks he does: in doorways, from taxi cabs, in the eyes of a young client that walks into the office of which he is now vice president, sees people who might be her but he looks next and she is gone.

and he sees her like he is in a movie, sees her in the green and in the palm trees and in the cars on the boulevards; he watches every new movie that comes out to see if she is in any, and he never sees her. one day he sits in a darkened theater and watches as a woman who looks almost exactly like her waltzes into frame – the credits say her name is melissa. she does not have the same last name but he knows, and he smiles to himself in that velvet seat, and is glad that she had made it, though he does not know her.

he does not forget about her, not ever, and not completely; he looks at the stars every night and sings her name to himself, almost as a reminder that she was, is, real, not just something he had made up one night, all alone; not just some impossible dream.

and she had been wrong. he still does love her, wholly and completely and like no one has ever loved anyone else, but they could never have worked, in the end, and she was right about that – maybe in another life.

but that other life is not now, and so he comes to terms with it, breathes in the hollywood air like it is his, and soon enough that is what it becomes. he will see her again. someday. he wonders when.

•••

she has not heard his name in years.

when she has, it's always been a misunderstanding, a game of telephone that always ends up failing her; it is never the right name, never who she'd thought it was.

she likes to read the obituaries.

and when she sees his name, small print and no picture but still there, still real somehow, she cries without realizing it.

her husband is confused, spots her at the kitchen table, tears running down her face and into her tea; what's wrong dana.

she does not say, it is eight in the morning and a man i think i might have loved, once, if i had let myself, is dead.

she does not say, he had snuck me on a boat and told me i'd make a good actress and skipped stones with me.

she does not say, i'd kissed him three times and can still remember how he'd tasted and, jesus, there's no way he's really gone...

she does not say anything, really, just walks, slowly, into her bedroom, the newspaper clutched tight in her hand; sits down on her bed and reads the article, the one-paragraph piece: car accident. lived here for ten years. admired by all who knew him.

never married.

and she hates to think it, but knows, somehow, that it was her fault; he'd moved out here to find her again – if not the whole reason it was at least halfway. he'd moved to be with her and she'd said no, said not with me, not now...

and the bad part of it, the part of it that hurt, really hurt, was that she had loved him.

maybe she still does.

she had not let herself at first: they didn't know each other, and, hell, she was married by the time he'd finally been ready for her...

but she had loved him, and, she thinks, that was the beginning and the end. the car had wrapped itself around the trunk of the palm tree and she hopes he had felt at home there, going out in the most hollywood way. she hopes her little city had been enough of a home for him, an escape of the muggy district air; she hopes he had been happy, was happy without her.

her husband finds her there, wrapped around herself, not letting herself cry all the way, says what's wrong for a second time.

and she takes a breath and says, "i knew him. his name was fox." and it feels foreign, his name, real name, on her lips, and she does not like it. "mulder. i called him mulder."

and he sits down next to her and wraps an arm around her and says how'd you know him and she says, it was a long time ago.

she says, before i met you.

and he understands. and she loves him, her husband, arm around her on their king size bed, and it is a comfort to find that she still does.

i never understood why you liked to read these things, he says, taking the paper from her slowly; worried, most likely, that she will latch on, not want to let go.

neither do i, really, she says, and it's true: she's never been all that interested in death but the black and white squares of names every day always comforted her, somehow; maybe it was the fact that she never knew any of them.

and now here she sits, her husband trying to comfort her, saying things like "i'm sure he was important to you," and, "i'm sorry," and, "we're all gonna go sometime, dana " – that last one more of a joke than anything but she does not like the way he'd said it, soft and against her cheek. she opens her mouth, maybe to respond, but no words come out so she stands up, brushes off her dress and turns to go.

make sure to pick up em, she says. i'll be out for a while.

the cemetery sits behind an old church, the church she does not go to, and she laughs, knowing, somehow, that he was not, was never a religious man –

the headstone is smooth black marble.

and it fits, it does: she didn't know him, not ever, not really, but she knows he would not have wanted a white grave, nothing so pure.

she does not have flowers with her. she does not have anything with her. she walks, cautiously, up to the smooth stone and starts to talk, slow, measured sentences like she's seeing him again for the first time in ten years – and, really, isn't that exactly what she's doing?

"hi," she manages, tries not to think about boats and things. "i, um. i heard that...i'm sorry." she is not crying, she will not cry at this grave, at the grave of the man she would not let herself love...

"i didn't bring flowers, i..." a breath. "i don't really like bouquets, they're...i don't know, i suppose they're dead things we pretend are alive. sorry, i..." another breath, in-out; a sigh, long and slow. the air is fall cold, not quite winter but the frost had formed and melted on the grass in early morning, still not completely gone. "i think, um. i think, mulder, that, um, we could have really been something, you know?" and now she's really crying, sobbing like she had into her tea this morning. "meaning, i guess, we could have had..."

a breath.

"i'm not going to talk about what we could have had. you...you were a lot of things that i needed and i'm sorry i wasn't there for you when you finally found me and i'm sorry i couldn't let myself..." she takes a breath, does not want to say it, has to say it... "love you properly and i just. want you to know..." she stops. what does she want him to know, she wonders. "i just wanted you to know. that's all."

she turns to go, stops, thinks of one last thing to say, one final goodbye. she thinks about the alexandria waterfront and how he'd kissed her, and how her red dress had gotten wet and how he'd been worried about that. she thinks about rocks, stones she'd taught him to skip, thinks about the stars and where souls go.

"if...if what you said is true. about the stars? and how...that's where our souls go, if...that's true. i want...i think...i hope you're at home up there, in the sky, you know? i hope...i think you'd like it up there, i suppose is what i mean. i think...there was always something about you that wanted more, wanted to...reach for the stars, literally..." she looks up, white clouds, blue sky, yellow sun. an impressionist painting of a day. a laugh, her laugh, resounds through that graveyard, one small syllable of a chuckle, laced with tears. she does not know what she is saying. "i really do believe, mulder, that...in some other life i think we'd work. so...i'll wait for you, i guess is what i mean." i'll wait for you. yes, yes.

she walks back to her apartment, not crying anymore, finds the building empty and cold, or maybe that is just her. she hopes he had heard her, saying what she was saying; hopes, somehow, he was up wherever he was and listening, and understanding –

in one screaming moment she realizes she wants to go back.

not to the graveyard, or to that park, even, but to alexandria, small and old and all the things she'd thought, when she was twenty or so, she'd want in a city...

her husband does not want to go with her, when she tells him. if you're just visiting, dana, he says, i can stay here, watch em; she can take care of herself, after all, she's nearly a teenager.

a train ticket is bought and she steps out of the station and looks out at the masonic memorial, still new and brown, makes her way east to the water. the sun is setting. she is going to cry. she knows this. she has prepared.

it looks exactly the same.

gazebos, restaurants, a long wooden boardwalk, boats tied, let in for the night. there is no yacht party. the docks are nearly empty.

and the beach...

she does not breathe too loud, grips the pearls around her neck and lets the tears fall, quietly. the stars are out and she has not been here in years but the old building, once a restaurant, is still abandoned and the air smells just like it had all those years ago and she is talking to him before she knows what she is doing, apologizing for the third or fourth or fiftieth time, saying all the same things except this time to the stars instead of a heavy black piece of marble; i'll be waiting for you and i don't think i will ever stop, she says. you told me to dream impossible things and here i am, talking to the stars, she says. i miss you, she says. i miss you, i do and i don't think i've ever told you that. i missed you when i left that night and i missed you when i moved and i missed you after the park and i miss you now, she says to the stars.

the rock she chooses is cold and smooth and flat; she turns it around and around in her palm and wonders if this is how she will let go, if this is how she will tell him goodbye, for real and for final.

twenty degree angle, like this. it's all in the wrist. follow through.

five skips.

it lands, hard, and the water ripples and shimmers in the starlight and she is crying, really really crying, which she had told herself she would not do; she will be waiting for him, yes, but this is goodbye – the stone had sunk.

"thank you," she says. and that is all. she leaves the rocks alone.

the stars sing her to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> titled after starlight by taylor swift
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed – or even if you didn't! i always love feedback!!
> 
> and my tumblr is @demiroscully you can chat with me over there if you'd like!!


End file.
